


Wrong Number

by sallysorrell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Christmas, Gen, Grief/Mourning, One Shot, One of My Favorites, Roses, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:32:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, Sherlock wants to talk to John.  No, he needs to. He's terrible and selfish, and putting everyone in danger.  John doesn't need to understand; he doesn't even need to listen.  There is only one solution...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong Number

**Author's Note:**

> I had a ton of fun slipping codes and symbols into this one. Just like the series, I hope you'll over-analyse, and send in your theories. Thanks for reading! Your thoughts are always appreciated.

The graveyard was silent, apart from two paltry noises: Sherlock's fingernails clacking against his phone, and every alternate step John took. Sherlock hated to see him limping again, so soon and suddenly.

The mobile phone was new, and Sherlock made many mistakes as he typed. He shrugged and tried to be efficient. He typed in John's number, borrowed from a painting in his room of the Palace, but did not save it as a contact. The phone would only last a few days, Sherlock reminded himself. His heart froze as he tapped 'send.'

John stopped, just outside the cemetery gates, and glared at his pocket. He didn't want to look at his phone. He _r_ _eally_ didn't.

 

  
_[1] New Message from: 07510_  
See you at the cinema tonight?  
-Hannah

John rolled his eyes and deleted the message immediately. Sherlock watched as he hobbled to the street corner and begged at the taxis.

* * *

At times, Sherlock trailed his blogger too closely. He watched from the street as John tore his warmth and possessions from 221B. The soldier struggled down the stairs, leaning on a new cane and staring only at the ground. He needed to sit down, there on the staircase, in order to read the text. Sherlock ducked into his coat and turned away from the window.

 

  
_[1] New Message from: Unknown_  
Sam,  
Happy Birthday. We miss you.

While reclaiming his normal breath and heartbeat, John decided to reply:

 

You've got a wrong number.  
I hope you find Sam though.

Sentiment overcame Sherlock; after dismembering the phone beyond recognition, he stuffed it under his borrowed pillow. For the first time in weeks, he slept.

When he awoke, well before the Sun, he moved the message from his memory to a scrap of paper, placed gingerly in his innermost coat-pocket. This was the only comfortable part of the slick, new coat.

* * *

John, of course, had kept the  _old_  coat. It rotted in a bag in his closet. He debated whether or not it should move out with him. Of course it  _shouldn't_. How would he explain  _that_ to Mary?

Sherlock, safe and far away, passed time at the train-station by texting. He kept the  _Unknown_ phone, for poisoned sentiment, and one he purchased from a questionable backstreet vendor. It had been stolen, he deduced. The numbers and contacts were all saved, but the cover was scratched and the aerial (it was an ancient, 'flip' variety) had been chewed by a child or a dog. His fingers were clumsy, stumbling over the nine sticky buttons.

The doctor watched his phone, as it buzzed on the table.

"I can get that, Dear," Mrs Hudson rushed up the stairs. She hated leaving John alone for too long.

"It's fine," he sighed, stepping over partially-packed boxes. The flat was mostly empty, now.

 

  
  _[1] New Message from: 07624_  
Sorry I left early last night.  
Had to pick up the children.

He deleted this, and returned to his seat. The phone vibrated again:

 

   
  _[1] New Message from: Unknown_  
Sam,  
Hope you can make it to dinner tonight. Let us know.

In a display Sherlock would be quite proud of, John assumed the other line had an elderly owner. Someone unaware of incorrect numbers, but insistent on polite messages. Someone who only used texting with younger relatives, and for important occasions.

He hoped they would read his response and understand it:

 

This isn't Sam, sorry.  
You've got a wrong number.

* * *

Sherlock rushed to compose his text before the aeroplane departed. He shifted in the narrow seat, and, after consulting his diary, knew  _exactly_ where the message would meet John.

The doctor held a sizzling cigarette, but refused to inhale it. Mycroft had sent him a whole packet, as an early Christmas gift. John stood over the headstone, letting the ashes sprinkle onto it. He set down his cane, in order to kneel and refresh Sherlock's flowers; always pink and yellow roses. Six of each.

He refused to look at his mobile until in the backseat of a cab:

 

   
  _[1] New Message from: 07735_  
Saw your advert online…  
Hoped to make an offer on the Alfa…

* * *

Sherlock was hunched in a chair at a delicatessen; the only place he could find, still open. He sipped stale coffee, overflowing with milk despite his protests to the confused waitress. His Unknown phone was switched 'on' for the first time in a year; he had abandoned the charging cable, and only used it when stricken by sentiment.  The screen was dim, as he inputted John's number.

He waved off the waitress, with her stack of menus, and focused on his composition.

John curled up in  _his_  armchair and stared at the Christmas tree. Mrs Hudson scrambled to prepare dinner, before her other guests arrived. The warmth of the fireplace, along with a gentle scent of cider, encouraged him to sleep. With fuzzy eyes, he read the text:

 

   
  _[1] New Message from: Unknown_  
Samson,  
Happy Christmas. See you tomorrow.

He shook his head, somewhat sadly, and tapped a button to dial the Unknown number.

The ringtone sliced through the silent deli, and absolutely mangled Sherlock's heart. He accepted the call, but knew better than to speak.

"Hello?" John's voice; sleepy, strained, and wistful. He heard the springs in the armchair, as John adjusted himself. A blanket rustled, too, against the cane. Aluminium.

Sherlock had to keep focused on the details. He shouldn't speak, and he  _couldn't_ breathe.

"Uhm," John cleared his throat, "You've got a wrong number, mate. I tried to tell you, but… it doesn't matter, it's fine. Only…. I hope you find Sam, okay? Right. Have a happy Christmas."

Sherlock was relieved to hear the flat tone of a terminated call. He stirred his coffee, paid the cheque, and strolled outside. He knotted his scarf and took shelter in the coat-collar. The Moon flickered between sombre clouds.

He would not use the Unknown phone again. He would not need to.

"Happy Christmas, John," he breathed, "See you tomorrow."


End file.
